A thousand-year-old fermentation practice and contemporary reinterpretation of savory taste, umami is revealed through local products. Inspired by the traditional fermentation of soy sauce, this article explores how to create innovative, locally sourced fermented condiments rich in umami. Discover how umami transforms simple foods into profound and flavorful culinary experiences.
Umami, that deep, enveloping taste that lingers long after the bite is gone, is a universal quest, present in all culinary cultures. Contrary to what one might think, this taste is not exclusive to Asia. There, taste classifications go beyond the four classic flavors—salty, sweet, sour, bitter—to also include spicy, fatty, astringent... and of course umami, that “delicious” taste that prolongs and connects the others.
Codified in Japan through fermentations such as miso or soy sauce, it is also deeply rooted in our Western taste memory: a piece of grated Parmesan cheese in soup, a slice of cured ham, a reduced sauce base, a pot-au-feu broth, or even, for some, the memory of a dash of Maggi on a plate.
Umami is universal. It appeals to everyone who loves food. It comes from certain amino acids (glutamate, aspartate, glycine) and nucleotides (guanosine, inosine). It can be found in miso as well as in pot-au-feu.
It is this deeply cultural and regional memory that we seek to explore through fermentation. We draw inspiration from Asian techniques, yes, but to create something else: local fermented bases made from grains, seeds, or legumes produced in Switzerland—quinoa, hemp, chickpeas, spelt, buckwheat... — which we mix as we blend grape varieties, in search of new harmonies. Not to reproduce soy sauce, but to invent a fermented condiment that speaks our language: both humble and refined, everyday and mysterious.
Brillat-Savarin, in The Physiology of Taste (1825), called it “osmazome,” a term coined in 1806 by chemist Louis Jacques Thénard. Later, Auguste Escoffier—without knowing the chemical causes—composed dishes in which this mysterious flavor played a key role. Read or reread the recipe for veal stock in the culinary guide. It is this universality that makes us want to imagine a fermented sauce that speaks our culinary language, made from local ingredients.
Soy sauce, or shoyu, is a masterpiece of fermentation, born from the combination of simple ingredients—soybeans, wheat, salt—and centuries-old expertise. Rich, deep, and complex, it embodies umami, the fifth taste, which is difficult to describe but immediately recognizable. While soy sauce is a staple of Asian cuisine, it has also become an international standard. However, its ingredients are not always compatible with today's needs: allergies, intolerances, distant imports, and a taste that is sometimes too strong for some palates. This led to an idea: what if we rethought soy sauce? Not to copy it, but to adapt it. To make it an expression that reflects who we are.
Twenty-five years ago, during a business trip to Japan, I discovered koji—those noble fungi (Aspergillus oryzae) that transform rice, barley, and soybeans into fermented treasures. It was during visits to sake breweries and soy sauce factories. I have fond memories of the warm smell of moromi, the precision of the movements, and the respect for time. At the time, I didn't know that this memory would stay with me for so long. Today, at EHL, I finally have the opportunity to give it shape, to experiment, and to pass it on.
The idea is not to reproduce soy sauce identically, but to use it as inspiration to create a new category of fermented sauces. Instead of soy, I use quinoa, hemp, chickpeas, buckwheat, spelt... Ingredients that are rich in protein, allergen-free, and grown in Switzerland. Each base has its own character: some are sweet, others nutty, vegetal, floral, or mineral. They must be blended like wine, seeking balance, complexity, and length on the palate. The result? Dark, liquid, dense sauces, rich in umami, but with a new personality—closer to our palates.
The process remains faithful to the fundamentals: Koji is seeded on the chosen base, followed by a long fermentation in brine, and a moromi that is stirred, monitored, and tasted. Ingredients can also be added to enrich the flavor, such as mushrooms, broths, seaweed, and roasted grains. Each step opens up new possibilities and combines science, intuition, taste memory, and ecological commitment.
Cooking knows no boundaries; it transcends regions, cultures, climates, and traditions. It is deeply local, but never closed off. It evolves, migrates, and transforms. Exploring soy sauce is a way of placing the act of cooking within a global dialogue, with local, sustainable, and sensitive responses. By creating an alternative to soy sauce with our local products, we are not seeking to imitate, but to create a dialogue between memory and invention. What if umami were not the preserve of one continent, but the expression of a universal taste that each culture interprets in its own way—as we also see in trends in the hospitality industry?